


Especially the Lies

by sapphose



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Linear Narrative, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29617401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Something is going on with Garak, and no one knows what, except for possibly Julian Bashir.(Set somewhere in mid to late season 4)
Relationships: Elim Garak & Odo, Elim Garak & Quark, Julian Bashir & Elim Garak
Comments: 68
Kudos: 61





	1. Cardassians

**Author's Note:**

> Normally, when I say that a fic has taken me a very long time, I usually mean that I rewrote one chapter 7 times in 24 hours, or that I simply was frustrated while writing it. This one, those who follow me on Tumblr will recognize snippets that I posted during Trektober. Given that I only started writing DS9 this spring, this one has taken a relatively long time to come together. I am nervous about posting it, because I don't usually post anything with such a major content warning, so I'll just say please mind the tags and feel free to tell me if something about the way I've portrayed this feels insensitive.

The Federation likes to claim that every species is equal and should be treated the same.

Idiotic thinking, in Quark’s opinion. A profit-minded businessman won’t turn any potential customer away, that much is true, but it’s a lie to say that their treatment ought to be identical. If a discerning proprietor sees Klingons coming, he makes sure he has bloodwine on tap and battle programs loaded in the holosuites, with a direct line to the constable in case of trouble. Humans, on the other hand, necessitate a supply of synthahol, root beer, and drinks from other worlds for those in the mood for something exotic (although “exotic” never seems to extend outside of Federation borders). They aren’t likely to end up in holding cells, but are liable to walk out if they think Ferengi staff aren’t showing proper respect to the human females.

These are only a fraction of the considerations Quark has to keep in mind operating on a station that houses a wide array of species. It may not meet with Federation approval, but it keeps the business running and the latinum flowing, and that’s what counts.

When Dukat’s Klingon pirate ship docks (often for days at a time), at least a couple of his crew inevitably make their way to the bar. Cardassians like to act as if they are always refined, orderly, and subtle, but they can drink more than an Algorian mammoth and get distinctly raucous after the second bottle of kanar or Cardassian ale. Now that the station is Bajoran, happy Cardassians inevitably mean trouble, with both sides equally likely to start it.

The particular Cardassian officer who comes in this evening isn’t one Quark recognizes, although that doesn’t mean much. He pulls out the kanar and scans the space for Bajorans. Only eight in total, and all of them employed by the station. The odds are in Quark’s favor.

He gives his best customer service smile and says, “Welcome to Quark’s! What can I get you?”

The Cardassian brushes right past him as if he is invisible, heading for the back.

What’s at the back? Entrances to the holosuite, dangerous if the Cardassian is going to try and enter without paying. A couple of quiet couples having conversations. Garak, and that’s another variable to consider, since many Cardassians that come on the station hate his guts. But Cardassians are more likely to snipe than stab in public places, and Garak is probably waiting for the doctor, which usually means he is on best behavior.

This officer- or rebel? whatever Dukat has made them- has no such motivation to behave.

“You,” he barks, striding to the table.

Definitely addressing Garak. Garak never de-escalates a situation, possibly isn’t capable of it, but he isn’t liable to attack either. With any luck, the two will just insult each other until they get sick of it.

“How nice to see you again,” Garak says pleasantly, without standing up. “Is your father well?”

Exactly the kind of pointed politeness Quark expected. Does that mean he can relax?

“You traitorous _bastard_ ,” the stranger growls. “How _dare_ you?”

Garak does not have the chance to respond, because the other Cardassian’s hands go right to his throat. Quark curses and goes for the alarm.

–

Odo is sick of Garak.

Not in general. Most of the time, he is fonder of Garak than he will admit to anyone, himself included. They maintain a friendly reciprocal suspicion and share mutually mistrustful, enjoyable breakfasts.

But right now, specifically, Odo is sick of Garak. More precisely, he is sick of being in this situation with Garak, of standing in the infirmary and listening to a litany of lies- none of them even particularly believable- about how Garak is _fine, really_ and has _no idea why anyone would want to attack a humble tailor_ and is _sure it was all a misunderstanding_.

It happened when Klingons threw him to the ground and broke his ribs, it happened when the Flaxian came to assassinate Garak on Tain’s orders, and it is happening now. Odo crosses his arms over his chest, the harrumph already forming in his throat, and listens to Garak being as unhelpful as the Cardassian knows how to be.

“A misunderstanding? Really, Garak?” Odo presses. “Surely you must have met the man before.”

Garak assesses Odo for a split-second, and then makes a theatrical show of remembering.

“Now that you mention it, Constable, I do believe he came into my shop once. He damaged something when he tried it on, and didn’t like the fee I charged to compensate for it. Nothing more than a dissatisfied customer, I assure you.”

“Do all your dissatisfied customers attempt to kill you?”

“Tailoring is a very serious business. Besides, I do appear to be alive, thanks to the good doctor here.”

Bashir, for his part, has been unusually quiet. Perhaps he is as sick of the repetition as Odo.

“Quark reports that he said, ‘how dare you,’ before he attacked.”

“What can I say? Some people grow simply incensed over surcharges.”

“He also called you a ‘traitorous bastard,’ is that right?”

“He may have said something of the sort, I really don’t remember.”

“Oh?” Over the years, Odo has perfected injecting several paragraphs worth of sarcasm into monosyllables. “I didn’t realize you had suffered memory loss as well. Is it a sign of brain damage, Dr. Bashir?”

The doctor does not answer, staring at the tricorder with his brow furrowed.

“Doctor,” Garak prompts, and Bashir looks up, startled.

“What? Sorry, I was lost in thought for a moment there.”

“I was asking if Garak’s memory of the incident would be affected,” Odo explains dryly.

“Oh. No, his memory is in perfect working order. In fact, I’m sure he remembers much more than he’s letting on.”

Garak clucks his tongue in mock dismay.

“Now, where is that Federation doctor-patient confidentiality I’ve heard so much about?”

Bashir stares intently at Garak, and some kind of wordless communication seems to pass between them. When Bashir next speaks, his voice is tight.

“Odo is here to help you, Garak.”

“I’ll determine what help I need, thank you, Doctor.”

“Fine,” Bashir replies curtly, and turns his head to Odo. “Garak is cleared to leave the infirmary. Give me one moment to get a medkit and I’ll go with you to Security.”

“I’m not done with you yet, Garak,” Odo warns. “I will be back with more questions.”

“You know where to find me,” Garak says brightly. “Good day, gentlemen. And Doctor, do remember your confidentiality.”

Bashir stiffens but does not respond.

Odo and Bashir make their way through the Promenade in silence, contemplative on Odo’s part. It is not strange that Garak has been dismissed from the infirmary so quickly; it has proven impossible to keep him there against his will. Nor is it unusual for Bashir to accompany Odo to examine the man in the holding cell. Out of respect for his Bajoran nurses, Bashir tries to be the primary point person for any Cardassian medical care. No, what’s odd is Garak’s insistence on that word _confidentiality_. To Odo’s recollection, he has never used it with Bashir before, preferring _discretion_ or _tact_.

This emphasis on doctor-patient confidentiality implies that Bashir knows something.

And Odo is determined to find out what.


	2. An Injury

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively recently, I realized that I have been conceptualizing of chapters in a longer work the same way I think of scenes in a play. (That's especially obvious in "Growth," I think, where it tends to be one conversation per chapter.) I'm getting better about approaching chapters from a non-theatre standpoint, and experimenting with one scene over multiple chapters / multiple scenes in one chapter.  
> All this to say that there's some very tame experimenting with structure in this fic, which involves tense switching.

**Three days prior**

Night shift aboard the station wasn’t truly night. It was as artificial as day in deep space, a shared illusion maintained by illumination timers and shop hours.

That didn’t mean that the night shift wasn’t dark, or lonely. It was. If Julian was in the wrong mood, he hated it, itching until the next crew rotation arrived and he could go bury himself in a noisy, moving crowd of other people. If he was in the right mood, he found the calm and quiet soothing, a chance to catch up on research projects and filing that got lost in the hustle and bustle of the day.

At night, the infirmary functioned as an emergency clinic, open in case of a bar brawl or heart attack or other unpredictable situation. Julian usually worked the day shift, meeting patients and ensuring comfort for all the station’s species, but he felt as Chief Medical Officer that it was important he not ask the staff to do something he wasn’t willing to do himself, so he signed himself up for at least one night shift a month.

This was shaping up to be one of the quiet ones. He perched on a chair and read his PADD without any sense of urgency, feeling pleasantly relaxed and unhurried.

When he happened to glance up from the screen, only to see Garak silently looming in the shadows like a ghost, he very nearly screamed. He was able to swallow the vocalization , but he still jumped, jerking forward in the chair.

“Garak, you shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” Julian admonished. He expected a typical Garak denial ( _sneak, Doctor? Me?)_ , accompanied by a knowing smile, but Garak only continued to stand stiffly.

“I apologize, Doctor.” He nodded his head curtly, an abbreviated version of his formal bow. “Are you alone?”

An ominous-sounding question, even (or especially) from Garak, but Julian chalked it up to Garak’s natural paranoia. After meeting Enabran Tain and learning about the Obsidian Order, Julian had come to understand why Garak often behaved as if he was being watched. Tain may have died in the failed attack on the Founders’ homeworld, but Garak’s caution remained.

“Yes. It seemed like it was going to be an uneventful night, so I let Nurse Hortak go home early.” Doing the night shift solo was one of those things Julian would have sternly discouraged in any other staff member, but Hortak had looked tired, and Julian could always comm her back if she was really needed.

“Indeed.” Garak’s eyes swept the room, as if he doubted Julian’s statement.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Julian commented. The fact that it was 0230 was less odd than the fact that Garak would voluntarily come to the infirmary at all. “Your shop has been closed for a couple of days now.”

Garak nodded, but did not offer an explanation. Julian hadn’t really expected one (and knew that if he did receive one, it was liable to be completely fabricated).

“What can I do for you?” Julian prompted, when the silence had stretched a little too long.

“I have an injury,” Garak answered shortly.

Julian waited for the rest of the thought- a minimization of the pain ( _it’s really nothing but a simple scratch_ , revealed to be a deep cut bleeding profusely) or a transparent falsehood ( _it was an accident with the seam ripper, these things happen even to the best of tailors_ , when the mark had clearly come from a knife). More silence greeted him instead.

“If you’ll show me, I’m happy to take a look at it.” Julian kept up a cheery professional manner, but he didn’t quite know what to make of a quiet Garak. The Cardassian’s impassive expression offered no help.

“In private, if you please, Doctor.”

“Of course.”

Julian hurried to show Garak to one of the small side rooms without complaint, even though there was no one else in the main bay and the last person to pass by had done so two hours ago. A patient’s right to privacy was to be respected at all times, not argued with.

Julian entered first with Garak following slowly after, still suspiciously eyeing dark corners.

“Before we proceed, I’d like to ask a few questions,” Garak began. “This is the first time I’ve come here of my own volition, and I want to be sure I understand your policies.”

Garak’s trips to the infirmary were usually precipitated by incapacitation: a seizure from withdrawal, the force of an explosion, a knockout blow from a Klingon. Julian wondered if this was going to turn into a complaint about treating unconscious patients, or some kind of lecture about Federation inferiority.

“I’ll explain anything you’d like.”

“Do you take any video recordings of your patients?”

“What? No, that would be completely unethical. There’s a camera in the hall at the entrance, and one in my office. That’s it.” Julian furrowed his brow, wondering where Garak got such an idea. Was that standard Cardassian medical practice? Or had Odo installed extra surveillance measures and neglected to inform the doctor?

“What about audio recordings?”

“I can ask the computer to make a recording, but I usually only do it when I’m taking notes for a file, and even then I wait for the patient to leave.” It was poor form to talk to the computer about a patient as if they were not present or not cognizant. Julian had received that lecture about bedside manner in medical school many times.

“Who has access to the medical records?”

Come to think of it, this felt almost like an oral exam at the academy. _Cadet B_ _ashir, summarize the_ _healthcare proxy_ _statutes relevant to_ _unmarried_ _officers serving on multi-year missions._

“Myself. Dr. Girani. The nurses,” Julian recited. “But the files are very secure.”

As he said it, he realized he wasn’t sure if any file on the station was really secure from Garak, whose skills in working around encryptions continued to be revealed.

“I would like further restrictions to my file,” Garak pronounced. “You and I should be the only ones able to access it.”

Everyone had a right to privacy, but that seemed a touch too far.

“There’s no need, Garak. Nobody looks at the files unless they need to see a specific patient’s record in order to treat them, and the whole staff adheres to strict confidentiality about what they know.”

“I’m sure they do,” Garak said, in a tone that implied he doubted it strongly. “But you must understand that we Cardassians greatly value our privacy, particularly when your staff includes Bajorans who may be… emotionally compromised when it comes to my people.”

Julian trusted every member of his staff, without hesitation or reservation. He wouldn’t have allowed anyone to work in the infirmary if he didn’t believe they were capable of following reasonable rules.

He also believed that this hour of the morning was not the best time to get into an argument about it, particularly when the nature of Garak’s injury was still unknown.

“Whatever makes you most comfortable.” Julian issued the necessary command to the computer, then turned back to Garak. “Is there anything else I can clarify for you?”

“Yes. Under what circumstances would you share a patient’s medical information with your commanding officer?”

Maybe Garak was trying to trap Julian into a contradiction, maintaining that everything was confidential before admitting there were situations where he might consult Sisko. But why in the middle of the night?

“If I believe that the patient poses an immediate danger to self or others,” Julian said. For civilians, it was a rarely enacted contingency. For crew members, the definition was more expansive, including if there was any reason to believe they were not fit for duty, but that wasn’t relevant to Garak.

“What about Starfleet headquarters? Would they ever be informed?”

“Only in an extreme case. Starfleet Medical does receive annual statistics from all CMOs- supplies we’ve used, species we’ve treated, number of incidents for certain conditions- but it’s all anonymous. They might know that 50 Klingons came into the infirmary over the course of a year and that two cases of Levodian flu were treated, but they have no way of connecting the patient and the diagnosis. The data is collected for research and planning purposes only.” In daily life, Julian rarely thought about it. He accepted the practice as a necessary bit of bureaucracy. Come to think of it, when was his next report due? The computer took care of collecting the numbers, but Julian would still have to review and sign off on it.

“I see.” Garak looked down at the room’s solitary biobed, then back up at Julian. “I’ll need to undress before you can begin, Doctor.”

For one blushing, startled moment, Julian felt that he had entered one of those sordid, extremely unethical ‘hot for doctor’ holoprograms Quark had tried to get his image for.

The moment passed, and he realized that Garak was referring to Julian’s examination of his wound. Hoping that his train of thought was not visible on his face, Julian nodded earnestly.

“I’ll get you a gown to wear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of the anonymously reported statistics comes from my experiences with college/university Clery Reports. If you are a current student, look up your institution's report; you have a right to information about campus safety.


	3. Security

**The present**

“Dr. Bashir, Tulet Nador. Mister Nador, Dr. Julian Bashir. He is here to examine you.”

Introductions out of the way, Odo lowers the holding cell’s force field, allowing Bashir to step inside. The doctor begins to scan Nador, who remains seated on the bench, while Odo surveys with folded arms.

“I thought that was your job,” Nador remarks. He is younger than Garak, with a weak chin and the kind of long neck that makes Cardassians unreasonably proud of themselves.

“He is going to examine you medically. I will examine your story.”

“There isn’t much to say.” Nador watches Bashir out of the corner of his eye as the human’s tricorder moves up and down.

“You attacked a man. Find something to say.”

“Neither of us are Bajoran or Federation citizens. I don’t see why it’s any of your business.”

“Because this is a Bajoran station. Now, why did you attack Garak?”

“It was a misunderstanding. I thought he was a Klingon.”

Cardassians. So smugly superior about their conversational skills, and they just use them to obstruct investigations. Odo harrumphs and adds an eye roll for good measure.

“Nothing broken,” Julian reports, interrupting the tension. “But there is a fair bit of bruising, similar to Garak’s. I can take care of it with a dermal regenerator.”

Evidently, Garak gave as good as he got. Odo is of course not secretly pleased to hear this, because brawling in Quark’s is against the rules.

“There is no need. I can take care of it on my own ship.”

Odo debates bringing up the technicalities of referring to a stolen Klingon bird-of-prey led by Dukat as _my own ship_ , but decides against it.

“I don’t think so. You are in my custody for the foreseeable future, unless Garak decides not to press charges against you.”

Bashir glances over at Odo. He is fully aware that Garak will, in fact, make exactly that decision, which is why Odo conveniently neglected to ask him about it back at the infirmary. He has a mystery to solve before he will allow for Nador’s release.

Nador’s lip curls.

“This is outrageous.”

“You accused Garak of being a traitor.” Traitor to the state is a culturally standard (though extreme) insult for Cardassians, but it is a starting place.

“He was exiled from Cardassia. It is a fact, not an accusation.”

Odo does not have eyebrows to raise, but he produces the effect of the expression if not the form.

“While you are a loyal citizen of the union?”

Nador scowls.

“We are protecting Cardassia. Not that a Changeling like you can understand loyalty.”

“Was it Garak’s lack of loyalty that made you so angry?” Odo probes.

“I don’t care what that disgrace does,” Nador scoffs. “I already told you, it was a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Bashir repeats incredulously. “You assaulted him!”

“He survived.”

“There are things a person shouldn’t have to survive, including that level of brutality!”

“Oh?” Nador stretches out the syllable. “I thought that our conditions were similar. To what brutality are you referring?”

Odo has the same question, but the doctor does not answer it. Instead, he knits his brows together in a scowl and says nothing at all.

Curious. Very curious, indeed.

Odo keeps an eye on Bashir, even as he resumes addressing Nador.

“According to Quark, Garak asked about the health of your father. Is he unwell?”

A muscle jumps in Nador’s cheek, between his eye and jaw ridges.

“My father has nothing to do with your examination.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Odo tilts his head to the side. “Does he serve along with you?”

“My father is Legate Marayn Nador of the Detapa Council,” Nador sneers.

“He must be disappointed that his son is a renegade,” Odo guesses, unimpressed. “I thought that service to the state was just as important to Cardassians as filial obligations.”

He has struck a nerve. Nador knocks aside Bashir’s regenerator and launches to his feet.

“I am doing my duty to the state!” he spits, over Bashir’s admonitions to be careful.

The cheerful chirp of the combadge takes all three of them by surprise. Odo glares at it.

“Sisko to Security,” barks the disembodied voice.

“Odo here.”

“I have Dukat here in my office, Constable. I believe that you owe both of us an explanation.”

Nador’s chest swells at the mention of Dukat. This is the last thing Odo needs, another swaggering Cardassian who will also do his best to get in the way.

“One of Dukat’s men was involved in an altercation in Quark’s. He is currently being treated for wounds and interrogated,” Odo responds curtly.

“I think it would be best if you came to my office and elaborated in person. Sisko out.”

If Odo were the type to curse, he might do so. Instead, he shakes his head for the theatricality of it and turns to leave.

“Let’s go, Doctor.”

“Oh, surely you don’t need me to come along,” Bashir tries weakly. Odo gives him a stern glance.

“I think I do.”

Odo waits until they are out of Nador’s hearing before making his next remark.

“You go on, and tell Sisko I’ll be along shortly. I have a little independent investigating I need to do first.” He strides off, ignoring Bashir’s protest.

–

When Odo arrives at the office in Ops, Dukat has gone. He feels no regret about missing the former dictator’s company. Judging by the jut of Bashir’s jaw and the way Sisko is pinching the bridge of his nose with closed eyes, Dukat was as charming as ever.

“So good of you to join us, Constable,” Sisko says. When he opens his eyes, he fixes Odo with a piercing look that says _I blame you for this_. “We need to release Nador from custody.”

“Captain, a crime has been committed.”

Sisko, unmoved by the argument, rests his elbows on the table and folds his hands together at the level of his chin.

“Is Garak pressing charges?”

“No.”

“Quark?”

“Well, no.”

“Then I’m afraid it doesn’t matter. We don’t have any legal backing to hold him indefinitely.”

“He’s a threat to public security,” Odo growls.

“Then he is to be remanded into the custody of his superior officer. I want them off my station, Constable.” Sisko does not say, _now_. He does not have to.

“I believe there is more to the situation than we know, Captain. Isn’t that right, Dr. Bashir?”

Sisko raises his eyebrows.

“Is there something you need to tell me, Doctor?”

Bashir meets his eyes unflinchingly.

“No, sir.”

“Very well, then. I will.” Odo unfolds himself and leans over the desk. “Garak mentioned Nador’s father, so I did a little digging. Legate Nador resigned from the Detapa Council two days ago, after evidence surfaced that he had been selling key military positions to the highest bidder.”

“Interesting,” Sisko allows, “but I fail to see the relevance.”

“I believe that Nador blames Garak for his father’s disgrace, and I’m inclined to agree with him. As an agent of the Obsidian Order, Garak has information on every Cardassian politician, and I’m sure he still has connections who are more than happy to spread that information around.”

“Even if he did, that’s all the more reason to let Nador go. We don’t want to get involved in Cardassian politics.”

“I don’t think Garak’s motive was political. In fact, I think it is somehow connected to the fact that Garak’s shop has been closed for five days. He’s been more withdrawn than usual, hasn’t he, Doctor?” Odo pivots sharply to the right to direct this question at Bashir.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Bashir says curtly.

“He’s rescheduled breakfast with me, and I haven’t seen the two of you enjoying lunch together on the Promenade.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“I’m sure you have.” Odo turns back to Sisko. “Dr. Bashir referenced Nador brutally attacking Garak, and I believe he was referring to an incident that took place five days ago that he is choosing to keep secret.”

“Why would he do that?” Sisko asks levelly, eyes not leaving the doctor.

“Something to do with patient confidentiality.” A concept that has blocked Odo from pursuing the line of inquiry any further; his access to medical files is nonexistent, and Bashir has resisted his attempts to install more audiovisual recorders in the infirmary.

“Doctor.” Sisko says it gently, but with no room to escape. “If you have any reason to believe that Nador is a threat to station security, you are obligated to tell the constable and myself.”

“I know.” Julian locks his fingers together horizontally as if a wall of hands can protect him. “He did attack Garak.”

“More than once?” Sisko prompts.

Julian, to his credit, does not quail or squirm. He speaks with clear, serious intent.

“I have already told Odo everything that I am able to. Including in my reports five days ago.”

Odo and Sisko exchange glances, and comprehension begins to dawn.

“The anonymous assault,” Odo says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, the idea of what does and doesn't need to be reported comes from my experience with college campus policies. (At my college, there were three categories- people who didn't have to report anything you shared with them, people who had to make anonymous reports, and people who had to report every detail you gave, including your name. I have placed Bashir in the middle category.)


	4. Confidentiality

**Three days prior**

Julian kept his back turned while Garak changed, allowing the other man as much modesty as he could without leaving him completely unattended. Inside, the doctor was starting to feel decidedly nervous. What kind of wound required Garak to fully undress, and to ask so many careful questions? Was it connected to why Garak’s shop had been closed?

Julian did his best not to look nervous when he was invited to look back.

“You can sit on that biobed, and we’ll get started,” he instructed.

Something odd happened in Garak’s face. A twitch, almost, that might have become a smile or a frown but didn’t.

“You may need me to stand, Doctor,” Garak said quietly, and turned around.

Bruises.

Dark and purplish, expansive, livid against ashy gray skin.

Julian’s mind raced. One effect from the genetic enhancements was that he could simultaneously pursue multiple trains of thought at once. In conversation, this often made him distractable, or else fixated on pursuing every branch of a topic even if others found it boring or irrelevant. Professionally, however, it was a boon, particularly in this moment. It allowed for compartmentalization.

Julian was horrified, repulsed, burning with questions and sympathy he didn’t know how to express.

Dr. Bashir made a quick visual examination and began to extrapolate. Coloration of the bruises meant that they were not fresh, but not more than a few days old. Abrasion concentrated on the trunk, contusions on the posterior pelvis. Location indicative of sexual violence.

Any good doctor in Starfleet knew that consensual sex could also leave marks. One couldn’t treat Klingons without being aware of it. But there was a difference between Jadzia and Worf (or, on one memorable occasion, Quark and Grilka) smiling sheepishly while holding hands despite cracked ribs, and Garak, alone and opaque.

There was a protocol to be followed.

“Could you turn back around and face me, please?” Voice calm and smooth, revealing none of the emotion roiling inside Julian.

Garak did so. The stiffness of his movement seemed more meaningful now, given his body’s context.

“That looks painful, and I don’t want you to be in pain any longer than you have to, but there are a few steps I need to take first. What position would be most comfortable for you while we talk?”

“I’d rather stand and have you get on with it, Doctor.” Garak’s voice was edged with impatience, and Julian couldn’t blame him. He was sorry; he loathed not being able to immediately jump in and solve a problem. But the policies in this situation were clear, and he had been well-trained.

“I understand. Let me know if you change your mind.” Julian had been taught to be unhurried in the conversation, to explain every part of the procedure and allow time for choices and questions. He would have to find a way to do that while respecting Garak’s practical need for relief of discomfort.

Garak’s lips were set in a thin line. Dr. Bashir pressed on. Step one after obtaining consent was to establish a history to guide the examination.

He already knew some about Garak’s general medical history, including how often he saw a doctor (not often enough) and what other recent injuries he had experienced. That part of the conversation could be elided in accordance with Garak’s wish for haste, but it meant moving directly to what he suspected would be the most difficult part.

“I’d like for you to tell me what happened, in your own words,” Dr. Bashir prompted gently.

“I slipped in the shower,” Garak answered flatly, looking into the distance past Julian’s head.

A beat passed. In another setting, Julian would have pounced on the lie, but Dr. Bashir knew that some truths could be too painful to tell.

“It’s up to you how much information you want to share with me, but I want to make sure I can give you the best possible care, and it would help me to have more detail.”

Garak locked eyes with Julian.

“It was a sonic shower.”

Perhaps moving away from open-ended questions would be wise.

“How long ago did this happen?”

Garak’s eyes narrowed.

“Does it matter?”

“It affects how I interpret your symptoms. Your reaction to something that happened an hour ago will look different than your reaction to something from last week.” Julian suspected he could be more medically specific with Garak, who always knew more than he should about everything, but simple language was usually best in these sorts of interviews.

“It was two days,” Garak said curtly.

Two days. Why wait so long, and come in now?

Because Julian was working the night shift now. Garak had needed someone he could trust, and absolute privacy.

Julian’s heart ached.

“Thank you for trusting me and coming to the infirmary. That took courage.”

Garak looked away, back into the distance. His lips pinched at the word _trust_ , as if he tasted something sour.

Dr. Bashir counted silently in his head before continuing, letting the silence breathe.

“Before or during your shower, were any foreign substances ingested?” It wasn’t the usual manner of asking the question, but he wanted to follow Garak’s lead, not argue with the narrative.

“No.”

Julian considered his next words carefully, trying to stretch the metaphor.

“Did you fall onto any objects?”

The look Garak gave clearly communicated that he did not think Julian’s attempt was successful, but he answered all the same.

“No.”

That meant the only contact had been from another person. There were more specifics that needed to be determined, about the type of contact, but Julian didn’t know how to ask without leaving the hypothetical shower. He let that thread lie and picked up a different one.

“How were your clothes removed?”

“That’s enough, Doctor.” Garak’s gaze made Julian feel pinned in place. “I won’t answer any more questions.”

That was his interrogator voice, forceful and commanding.

The question had not been an idle one. It was prudent to inquire in case the answer was a blade (risking tetanus) or a phaser (risking burns). But Garak was the patient, and in this situation that meant he was in charge.

“I understand. That’s your right.” Dr. Bashir took nothing personally. “I’m going to need to do a full physical examination. I’ll start with taking your vital signs on the tricorder.”

Garak made no sound, but watched closely as the doctor picked up the device and began analyzing.

He hadn’t asked if Garak wanted it reported, but he’d collect all the data he could and then leave it up to Garak what should be done with it.

Blood pressure, pulse, temperature, respiration- all within normal range. No signs of impairment.

(Inside, the emotional part of Julian was tearing out its hair. _Nothing about this is normal!_ _He’s hurting and he’s in pain and I don’t know what happened-_ )

Dr. Bashir set the tricorder down.

“I’d like to look at your hands now, please.”

“There is no need.”

The framing device of a shower didn’t allow for explanations of checking for ligature marks or petechiae where clothing might have been pulled.

“I need to see if, in the shower-”

“There is nothing to see,” Garak hissed. “Everything except what I showed you has already been healed.”

The bruising Julian had seen- it was all in places that Garak couldn’t easily reach himself.

Garak never came to the infirmary if he could help it. He had drugs in his quarters, Julian knew, triptacederine at least and maybe more. The idea that he might have a full medkit, or at least a dermal regenerator, was not shocking.

“Did you heal them yourself?” he asked, knowing the answer. Garak nodded.

Maybe he had spent the two days trying to figure out how to heal the rest of the injuries on his own.

(It wasn’t right, Julian thought, that Garak had felt he couldn’t come to the infirmary, the space that was supposed to be safe and welcoming for every resident of the station. Was there nowhere outside of his own quarters that Garak could trust?)

Dr. Bashir mentally reviewed the next steps of the examination. He could forgo the wrists and arms, but even a spy who habitually knew more than he should was at risk of missing internal injuries.

“With your permission, I’d still like to check some of the more delicate areas where damage might not be visible.”

The examination continued, slowly and, for Julian, dissonantly. Dr. Bashir moved methodically, steadily narrating his actions and asking for permission before each touch. Palpating the jaw and orbital ridges revealed no sensitivity, and an inspection of the inside of the mouth showed no bruising or lacerations of the buccal mucosa or palate. Oral penetration unlikely to have occurred. ( _Thank God_ , thought Julian fervently.)

Dr. Bashir palpated the scalp next, searching for tenderness and swelling that might indicate haematoma.

Julian thought how odd it was to be stroking Garak’s hair.

He kept his touch on the neck gentle, ignoring the memory that surfaced of their first meeting and Garak’s hands on his shoulders.

“I’m going to have a more careful look at your back now,” Dr. Bashir began. “Please tell me if anything feels tender.”

Garak didn’t respond, but Dr. Bashir kept up an ongoing monologue of his actions, letting the patient know when to expect a touch. The last thing he wanted to do was surprise. He regenerated as much of the bruising as he could, knowing that Garak would need to recline for the next stage of examination.

The genito-anal examination came last.

 _I’m sorry_ , thought Julian, under every firm, gentle touch and quiet question. _I’m so sorry that this happened_.

At the end, Garak, predictably, refused to make an official report.

“Constable Odo is hardy going to arrest my shower,” he said.


	5. Pie and Parables

**The Present**

Julian is required to disclose any potential security risks, but he is also required to respect patient privacy and consent. In the end, he compromised, and reported that an anonymous patient had come to the infirmary in a condition consistent with sexual assault, but had chosen not to share the identity of their attacker or the location of the incident.

It was the kind of report that was fundamentally useless, but Julian was obliged to make it anyways. Nobody had put the pieces together with Garak’s unusual behavior, until now.

Odo looks faintly thunderstruck, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that Garak could possibly have been the patient in question. Sisko looks furious.

“I assume there is no point in reminding Garak that revenge could also be pursued by prosecuting Nador to the full extent of Bajoran law?”

Julian knows this way of speaking; forceful and clear, all on one breath, a slight space between each word to give it weight. Sisko is working up to shouting.

Julian doesn’t say anything. He cannot answer the question without confirming that Garak is the patient, and he cannot confirm that without Garak’s permission.

Sisko continues speaking with flashing eyes.

“Let me make something clear, Doctor. I have no intention of letting Nador get away with this, I don’t give a damn whose command he’s under.”

“Captain,” Odo interjects, “with your permission, I’d like to ask Quark to join us.”

Julian blinks. He couldn’t have been more surprised if Odo had asked for permission to shapeshift into a tuba and play jazz.

“Quark?” Sisko repeats doubtfully.

“Yes, sir. I believe he’s about to press charges for property damage that occurred during the attack in his bar, and anything else I can think of in the time it takes him to get here.”

Odo has a keen sense of justice, first and foremost. Quark calls him a dull rule-follower, but what Quark doesn’t understand is that where the law fails, justice is still what Odo will pursue.

Julian, for his part, feels nervous that he’s done the wrong thing, if not in telling Odo and Sisko his suspicions outright, then in allowing them to guess. If Garak had wanted it known, he would have said something. And in exposing Nador’s father, Garak has gotten his revenge. Maybe that’s the Cardassian way of things, so maybe allowing that to proceed without interfering would have been culturally sensitive care.

Garak likes to behave as if he is impenetrable, but Julian knows how deeply he feels things. The way the bitterness of exile is always on his tongue, the way he craves forgiveness he won’t admit he seeks, the way he doesn’t seek treatment because he doesn’t think he can.

No matter how guilty going about it makes Julian feel, he wants to see justice for Garak.

-

At the end of the shift (day, this time), Julian makes his way to Garak’s quarters with a dish under one arm.

“Garak, it’s me,” he calls out after pressing the chime.

“I’m afraid no one of my acquaintance answers to that name,” Garak replies infuriatingly from behind the door.

“I brought Yigrish cream pie.” Julian is not a complete fool; he knows that if he says _I’d like to do a follow-up to your last appointment_ , he has no chance of getting in.

Dessert, on the other hand, warrants welcome.

True to form, Garak opens the door. Julian tries to assess him quickly without being obvious. There’s an ashy, dull quality to Garak’s skin that the doctor doesn’t like at all.

“Shouldn’t you be advising me to eat more nutritious foods?” Garak asks with a note of superciliousness.

Frankly, Julian would advise Garak to eat anything if he’s been taking as little care of himself as Julian fears he has been.

“Access to novel, enjoyable food is as important to health as micronutrients. Do you want the pie or not?”

“Well, who am I to argue with a doctor?”

Thankfully, Garak steps aside and allows Julian to enter. The room is predictably dim, but Julian is surprised at how cool it feels.

“I’ll just, er, put it down on the table, shall I?”

“Unless you were planning to stand there until I start to eat it.”

Julian doesn’t make a retort to that, but follows implied instructions. He settles the plate next to a bottle of what looks like kanar, although Julian is far from an expert on Cardassian alcohol.

“Good vintage?” he asks.

It’s awkward, in a way that conversation with Garak of all people rarely is. Julian is quietly flailing, sinking under the weight of everything he wants to say- _I’m sorry this happened to you, you deserve better, let me take care of you, how can I help_ \- but knows that Garak doesn’t want to hear.

“As decent as one can get this far from Cardassian space,” Garak answers dismissively. Julian latches on to the opportunity.

“Do you think it’s something I’d like?”

Garak’s look tells Julian that this was transparent, but apparently Garak is in the mood to be gracious, because he offers Julian a glass to try, and just like that Julian is on to step three of his three-point plan.

One, get through the front door.

Two, get a reason to linger.

Three, try and support Garak.

(The third step was always going to be the tricky one.)

“Is it from Quark’s?” Julian asks, tentatively accepting the proffered glass.

“There are other sources of alcohol in the sector,” Garak says, which could mean _yes_ or _no_ or something else entirely.

There are a number of strategies Julian could take here. He tries to sort through the priorities in his mind. Visual assessment is likely all he’s going to get, and he has a strong suspicion Garak would ask him to leave before acquiescing to a follow-up appointment. Questions about whether or not Garak is still experiencing tenderness at the site of bruising will probably be similarly received. The Cardassian is private about even the most benign information, and this is certainly not benign.

Julian feels another twinge of guilt about betraying that privacy, in implication if not in explicit words.

“I heard a rumor about Quark that I think would interest you.”

“Oh?”

“He’s pressing charges against Nador.”

Garak sets his own glass of kanar down with a sharp clink and locks eyes with Julian.

“Why would he do a thing like that?” Garak’s voice is velvet soft and dangerous.

Julian gulps and rubs his thumb along the base of the cup to steady himself. He sometimes forgets that Garak can be _dangerous_.

“Property destruction, I heard. It seems that Nador broke two chairs and a case of very expensive Antarean brandy, and then Quark lost business because he had to close for the rest of the day so that security officers could record the crime scene.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, you were being strangled at the time.”

Garak leans forward.

“Did you have anything to do with this, Doctor?”

Julian doesn’t look away.

“I promise, it wasn’t my idea,” he says truthfully.

“Whose was it?”

“It might have been Odo’s.” He hesitates, weighing the pros and cons of his next statement. But Garak would want to know that Odo knows, and privately Julian thinks it’s important for Garak to know that others care. “He noticed that your shop hasn’t been opened in five days. And he said you rescheduled breakfast.”

“Considering that the Constable neither eats nor wears clothes, I’m sure he’ll manage without me.”

“Maybe he was concerned about you.” _I am_ , Julian thinks but does not say.

Garak shifts back in his seat, all hauteur and composure.

“I don’t require concern, or pity. I’m perfectly fine.”

But Julian has learned that Garak would say “I’m fine” even if he were actively on fire. There are very few subjects on which Garak can be trusted, and his own health is not among them.

“It’s cold in here,” Julian observes. If nothing else, perhaps he can convince Garak to raise the temperature again. After all, it was Garak who reminded him that Cardassians don’t do well without heat.

“For what species?”

For Cardassians, obviously, but Julian knows if nothing else that he has to respect Garak’s wishes, and if Garak wishes to be obtuse then that’s his choice.

“The one that kept the station at 32 degrees Celsius,” Julian says, as roundabout as he can manage.

“If I wanted your opinion on my quarters, Doctor, I would have asked you.”

That is not friendly banter. That is angry, and an angry Garak might ask Julian to leave, and Julian would have to go. (He didn’t when the implant was failing, but that was different, not in the least because Garak was actively dying at the time. There is far less room to argue medical necessity here.)

“I’m sorry,” Julian apologizes gently. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.”

“Why did you come here?”

_Because I want to help you and I don’t know how but I want you to know that I’m here for you, somehow_ . Julian takes a deep breath before answering.

“I wanted to… talk. You know you can always talk with me. About anything.”

“Hm.”

It isn’t quite a response, but it also isn’t a dismissal. Julian sips the kanar, settles into a seat, and thinks. (It’s not the best he’s tried, but it’s not the worst, with a sweet fruitiness that reminds him of springwine.)

Despite all the books and plays he’s read, there are many things Julian doesn’t know about Cardassian culture. Their attitude towards sexual assault of other Cardassians is on the list. (He does know more than he ever wants to about their attitudes towards the rape of Bajorans.)

In the Federation, it’s understood that the only blame falls squarely on the perpetrator. But what if Cardassians attach more stigma to it? What if theirs is a culture that blames the victim? Garak would feel too much shame to discuss what he had been through. And while Julian knows that every person has different needs, he also knows that speaking with a trusted confidante or therapist can be a vital part of the healing process. And if Julian can predict anything about Garak’s behavior (which, admittedly, he often can’t), it’s that Garak will not see a counselor.

So the question is, how to show Garak that he would be a supportive listener if Garak wanted to share what happened, without referring to what happened? How can Julian communicate that whatever happened is not Garak’s fault?

By showing it. Julian takes another gulp of kanar to fortify himself.

“Garak, there’s something I’ve been… thinking about recently. Something I wanted to tell you. It’s…” Julian fidgets. “Something I haven’t told anyone.”

“And you want me to be the first? I’m honored, Doctor.” Garak sounds more suspicious than flattered, but Julian doesn’t challenge him on the lie.

“Do you remember, two years ago, when I went to the Arawath Colony?”

It’s an unnecessary question. Of course Garak remembers when he was dying and Julian flew into enemy territory to face down Enabran Tain for the means to save his life.

Garak nods.

“When I arrived, Tain told me that he’d alerted the military I was coming. I don’t know if he wanted them to leave me alone or confront me, but either way, Dukat’s ship met me once I crossed the border.”

Garak’s low intake of breath sounds like a hiss. Julian has never told him this part of the story. They’ve barely talked about it at all.

“He asked me about what I was doing in Cardassian space,” Julian continues. “I said that I needed to help a patient. I didn’t say anything about you, but you’re the only Cardassian on the station so he put two and two together. I’m sure he knew I wasn’t any threat, but he wanted to search the ship. I was a bit… naive, I suppose. I thought that I could convince them to let me through, since I was on a medical mission.”

“Once again, you forgot that Cardassia is not the Federation,” Garak remarks unsympathetically.

“I remembered once I had five Cardassian soldiers beam aboard one tiny shuttlecraft. Two of them pointed disruptors at me, two of them poked around at everything they could, and Dukat just stood there and talked.”

“What did you do?”

“What could I do? I was trying not to get shot. I sat there and watched them go over everything twice, and then I pointed out that I obviously wasn’t hiding anything and I was in a bit of a hurry so could they go back to their own ship now, please.”

“You said please?” Garak wants to know.

“The wording isn’t important.” In fact, almost nothing makes Julian less polite than a weapon pointed in his direction, but now isn’t the time to dwell on that unfortunate lack of survival instinct.

“I’m sure it was to Dukat.”

Julian digs his nails into his palm. This next part is the tricky bit, the one he hasn’t told anyone. He left it out of the report, cut it when regaling Jadzia over drinks.

He’s not… ashamed, not exactly. But he doesn’t feel proud. He feels an itchy, crawling discomfort in his skin just remembering it.

“Dukat said that they’d searched the ship, but they hadn’t searched me yet. So he did.” Julian’s face is burning. He searches for the words. “They had me stand up, and I… I just stood there, and stared at the barrel of a disruptor, and tried to pretend I couldn’t feel it while Dukat groped me and the other soldiers watched.”

He says the last part into his drink.

As usual, Julian thinks, he’s making a mess of it. Here he was, trying to show Garak that he understood and there was no reason to be ashamed, and he’s too embarrassed to make eye contact while telling a story about something far easier than what Garak must have gone through.

They sit for a moment in quiet. With Garak, silence can mean any number of things, but this one is at least soft rather than sharp. If Garak decides to push Julian away by interrogating him, Julian isn’t sure he could handle it.

When Garak does speak, it isn’t what Julian expects (not that even Julian knows what he’s expecting).

“I’m sure your Starfleet friends would think no less of you if you told them,” Garak says.

Julian releases a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding.

“I know. But it’s still… difficult to talk about. Easier to pretend that it didn’t happen. But-” he raises his eyes to make good on the allegory- “sometimes it feels better after, having let it out. It helps, not to have to carry things alone.”

Garak raises his glass to his lips and murmurs, in a tone Julian is sure he is not meant to hear, “Confession is good for the soul.” Julian recognizes that phrase from Miles’ report of his time spent in the tender care of the Cardassian legal system.

There is another pause while they both drink, but it is no longer awkward. It is a breath.

Garak sets his cup down and remarks off-handedly, “I slept with Gul Dukat, you know.” Julian chokes on his sip of kanar. Garak adds, “Not the one you’re thinking of. His father. Also a gul.”

Sputtering, in dire respiratory distress, but still trying to show support, Julian nods through his coughing. He isn’t parsing meaning from Garak’s words, not yet. He has to figure out how to breathe normally again first.

“It was an assignment,” Garak continues conversationally, over the sound of Julian thumping himself on the chest. “He was suspected of treason, and it was my job to collect the evidence.”

Julian clears his throat hurriedly. He is not going to miss out on this conversation because millennia of evolution haven’t solved the proximity of the human esophagus and windpipe.

“By sleeping with him?”

Garak folds his hands in his lap primly.

“The method of gathering evidence was at my discretion,” he explains delicately. “That seemed the most… expedient, knowing what I did of the man. It infuriated Dukat, having his father carrying on with a man his own age. After the trial, when Dukat realized I was in the Order, he seemed to take the whole thing very personally.”

Knowing that a trial on Cardassia inevitably means execution, Julian can understand some of why Dukat might feel that way.

“You did your duty,” Julian says. However distasteful he might find said duty, he knows that serving Cardassia matters to Garak.

“And now, my dear doctor, you’ve done yours.” Garak tilts his head to the side, examining Julian. “Was that the story you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for something specific. I told you, you can talk to me about anything.” He thinks about adding _I’ll believe you_ , but he can’t promise to believe everything Garak says (and suspects that Garak would test him on such a promise), so instead he goes with an indisputably true, “I’ll listen.”

Garak swirls the kanar in his glass before taking another drink.

“If you’re looking for something to listen to, I was planning to spend this evening listening to a recording of the Lakarian Orchestra. You are welcome to join.”

It isn’t quite what Julian had in mind, but it is an opening, so he smiles and nods sincerely.

“I’d like that.”

They don’t talk much more that evening, unusual for the two of them. But they sit side by side, and Julian listens.


	6. Garak

As far as Garak was concerned, what everyone seemed to fail to understand was that none of it mattered.

What did it matter if it was a stranger or an enemy or a friend, a random attack or a date gone wrong? What did it matter if some Bajoran court found Nador guilty or not?

What did it matter if Garak drowned in mediocre kanar, or jumped out of an airlock, or never got out of bed again?

It didn’t. None of it did. None of it mattered at all.

He went through the motions from a distance, as if watching someone else live his life for him. He drank without tasting, and talked without thinking, his mind somewhere far removed from it all.

It happened. You got hurt and concealed it, you got revenge if you could and sucked it up if you couldn’t, and that was life, until you died. In the end, none of it meant anything.

That is what’s so strange about Julian. The way he disagrees. The way he seems to say, _it matters,_ _because you matter_.


	7. Comfort

When Garak reopens his shop, Quark is the first customer.

He knows that this is the day Garak will reopen. Odo and the doctor may think they’re smarter, may even know Garak better, but neither of them understands profit the way Quark does. And after over a week of closed doors, Quark knows that this is a decision motivated by profit. Garak has to open, or he will not be able to make rent.

The Federation, disgusting entity that it is, would not charge station residents for the cost of living and operating businesses. Bajor is not in the Federation, and they certainly don’t mind taking a Cardassian’s money. So with the perceptive lobes of an expert, Quark makes his calculations, and thus is first in the door with a stained waistcoat.

“Breshtanti ale,” he sighs, holding the offending garment out in his arms. “It’s a delicacy, but it doesn’t clean well.”

“Very interesting, but I run a tailor shop, not a laundry,” Garak replies.

“The replicator can’t do anything with Frunalian silk,” Quark complains. “So tell me, can the stain come out or am I going to have to order a whole new vest from you?”

The new vest will be expensive. At least Quark didn’t have to pay someone to spill on it; for some reason, Rom jumped eagerly at the chance to throw a drink at his brother.

Quark wonders if it’s too much, still, if he shouldn’t have come up with a cheaper excuse to come by. But businessmen have to look out for each other, and as Chairman of the Promenade Merchants’ Association, he’s been… worried. Well, as worried as one can really be about a spy who could probably kill them all if he felt like it.

“Let me take a closer look at it.” Garak takes the vest and holds it up to the light, examining the stain. With the fabric mere inches from his nose, he shoots a sideways look at Quark. “By the way, I heard an interesting rumor about you.”

“Those are the best kind.”

“Indeed.” Garak lays the waistcoat on a table, smoothing the fabric with both hands. “Are you really pressing charges against Tulet Nador?”

It was either file suit, or risk Odo following through on his threat to confiscate every one of Quark’s incoming shipments for the next six months. It wasn’t much of a choice, particularly given the light of potential latinum.

“Suing people is a time-honored Ferengi legal tradition.”

“Even for things they haven’t done, like destroying a case of Antarean brandy?”

“ _Especially_ for things they haven’t done.”

It’s true that Nador came nowhere near the alcohol, but Quark isn’t about to get a flimsy thing like the truth get in the way of profit.

Garak looks to Quark with a smile that the Ferengi does not like at all. Garak always reminds him of the 48th Rule of Acquisition- the bigger the smile, the sharper the knife.

“If I may ask, what’s to stop him from simply sailing away before you have time to collect your latinum?”

“Starfleet,” Quark answers smugly. It’s always nice when the Federation makes itself useful for a change. “They’re not doing any repairs to Dukat’s ship while one of the crew is awaiting trial.”

“I thought they tried to get rid of Dukat as quickly as possible.”

“Well, they made an exception this time.”

“That’s unusual, isn’t it? Starfleet making an exception for you?”

It’s actually an exception for Garak, but Quark enjoys being alive enough not to say so. He doesn’t understand all the details, especially since people attacking Garak is not an uncommon occurrence and the Federation has never gotten overly involved before, but it has something to do with Garak closing his shop and not eating in the Replimat and ordering far more than his usual amount of kanar.

(Quark is not an idiot. He _notices_. You have to, if you want to succeed in business. Customers like to be noticed.)

Quark shrugs with his elbows bent, as if to say that he has given up on understanding the eccentricities of Starfleet.

“What about the vest?” he changes the subject.

“Leave it with me, and I’ll take a look at it.”

There, that’s Quark’s business discharged.

Still, he lingers. He remembers the last (only) time he saw Garak drunk, when he had to call Dr. Bashir down to the bar. And he think about the bottles of kanar Garak is ordering.

“You know, we’ve got a sale going on at the bar,” Quark says casually. “It’s my own invention, Muskan seed punch with a tranya infusion and Thalian chocolate. I could send some your way, if you’re interested.”

(Cardassians like fruit flavors, and Garak likes chocolate. Quark notices these things.)

“And what will it cost?” Garak asks with raised eye ridges. Quark laughs, his signature put-the-customer-at-ease chuckle.

“Like I said, it’s a sale. It’ll be half the cost of that kanar you were ordering.”

Garak still looks suspicious, which is unsurprising given that Quark only has sales on overstock or illegally acquired inventory. But he is apparently not in the mood to question it, because he nods curtly and says, “Very well.”

Quark grins. Now that’s business discharged (and for a reasonable profit, as well).

Odo comes in not ten minutes after Quark’s departure.

“I see your shop is open,” he says gruffly.

Garak looks at Odo, and there is a moment where Odo sees it. Something like exhaustion, but with less emotion. Not enough energy to be irritated. Just weary.

It unnerves Odo, and it’s gone in a flash, replaced with an insincere smile.

“Very astute of you, Constable,” Garak responds, kindness overlaying sarcasm.

“Quark was in here awfully early.” Odo makes a point of tracking Quark’s movements, and anything done this early in the morning is subject to suspicion.

“You’ll have to take that up with him.”

Odo crosses his arms and eyes Garak narrowly.

“What were you two talking about?”

“This may surprise you, but we were discussing clothing. Some species do wear it, you know.”

“Just know that I’ll be keeping a close eye on both of you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

Garak’s smile looks tired. Odo doesn’t like it at all. He is, by nature, a creature of order. He likes for rules to be obeyed, for justice to be served, and for everyone to follow routine. For someone to behave out of character is always mildly annoying. With Garak, it is concerning.

Odo recognizes, privately and never out loud, that he shares more in common with Garak than either will admit out loud. This includes a dislike of others’ concern. So Odo does what he does best, and harrumphs skeptically.

“Hmph. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet today.”

“Unless I’m mistaken, you don’t eat at all.”

Odo ignores this remark and continues in his dogged attempt.

“Why don’t you join me for some, and you can tell me about your business with Quark.” It is not said like a question.

“You mean, why don’t I eat while you watch and make baseless accusations?”

That is more or less what Odo means, and is the basis of their friendship, but he feels sullen about saying so.

“Some humanoids believe eating a meal makes the interaction more friendly.”

“Very well, Constable.” Garak sweeps an arm dramatically towards the door. “To breakfast.”

In the Replimat, Odo, hawk-like, watches Garak eat regova eggs and scones with moba jam. He pretends to sip from the cup that is an extension of his hand, to be polite, and asks if Garak wants dessert.

Garak informs Odo, with prim distaste, that dessert with breakfast is not done by Cardassians.

When they return to the shop, Bashir is waiting, and fidgeting with a package in his hands. Odo decides that this would be an opportune time to go do something else. As he leaves, he hears the beginning of the doctor’s overtures.

“I was wondering,” the human begins with an intriguing nervousness, “if you might like to join me in the holosuite this evening.”

Garak agrees, and Odo lingers slightly to catch the next bit of conversation.

“I brought some of Keiko’s sushi too. I thought you might like to try it. We could eat it together, at lunch, if you’d like. Or you can eat it on your own. But, er, it’s for you.”

At least, Odo reflects, Garak is in good hands.

Sisko arrives when Garak is alone, examining the package.

“Ah, Mister Garak. I hope I’m not interrupting your lunch.”

Garak does not ask _in the mood for some extortion today, Captain?_ but Sisko suspects he is thinking it all the same.

“This is from Dr. Bashir. Apparently it was made by Mrs. O’Brien.”

Sisko nods thoughtfully. He trusts the doctor to know how to approach this.

“Nothing beats home cooking. Maybe I’ll bring you some of my famous jumbalaya.”

Garak sets down the sushi.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m looking for a shirt. For Jake.” Jake is of an age where he has no interest in his father’s taste in clothes, but having a child is always a convenient excuse, particularly one who is growing like a Rigellian kora vine.

Garak accepts the pretense without argument.

“I’ll see what I have.”

Sisko watches Garak leaf through garments hanging on a rack like pages in a book. They are both fully aware that Sisko has never visited Garak’s shop as a real customer, that each of them views the other as a useful tool when needed and politely ignores their existence when not.

Garak is looking through shirts, but he is also waiting, to see what Sisko wants this time.

“I heard that there have been some… disturbances on the Promenade. Trespassing on private property,” Sisko says casually. “If you have any trouble, I hope you’ll tell Constable Odo.”

“I’m sure he’s too busy to deal with that sort of thing,” Garak replies carefully.

_Like hell_ , Sisko thinks.

“It’s his job. None of us-” this in the stern voice, the firm commanding officer voice- “ _None of us_ are too busy for something that affects the safety of DS9.”

“Trespassing in one man’s shop is hardly going to affect the entire station.”

Delicate maneuvering is required here.

“I’ve found that incidents like that aren’t as isolated as they appear. Sometimes it just takes one person to come forward.” Off of Garak’s doubting look, Sisko adds, “And even if it is only the one incident, it is our job to ensure that the rights of every person on this station are respected.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Captain.”

Sisko suspects that Garak will continue his deeply ingrained habit of not telling anyone, this being the man who blew up his own shop to draw Odo into an investigation rather than simply requesting the constable’s assistance. And yet (and yet), it doesn’t hurt to remind him that, this once, they can both be on the same side.

Sisko leaves with two Vitarian wool shirts in exactly Jake’s size.


	8. The Truth

The way that time moves for the rest of the day is wrong. When people are in the shop, it’s achingly slow, each second made longer by the effort it seems to take for Garak to exist.

When he is alone, hours pass in a blink, leaving him uncertain of where he’s been.

It’s unusual, for Garak, to exist like this. With notable exceptions (panicking under a pile of Tzekethi rubble, delirious in withdrawal, lost in a mental mire after Odo’s torture and Tain’s death), Garak is used to being constantly, sharply aware of everything. The size of a room, its layout, how long it would take him to incapacitate every person present and escape without being detected. He is accustomed to calculating time with precision, a valuable resource that needs to be tracked.

Now, he seems to be drifting in some sort of haze. Few things penetrate it. The first bite of sushi does, laced with both sweetness and salt. The brush of silk and wool against his fingertips. Other things pass by, unnoticed, as Garak watches, wondering idly if any of it is worth the bother.

Julian comes to fetch Garak from the tailor’s shop at the appointed time. This is also out of the norm; Garak is used to waiting for the busy doctor, who must contend with medical emergencies and time-consuming research. It must be a light day in the infirmary.

Garak doesn’t hear their footfalls as they walk down the Promenade. The sounds are muffled. Julian is talking (“I know you aren’t fond of surprises so if you don’t like it, I won’t be upset, you can just walk away”) and Garak nods along, following the script like a character in a play. He has always been good at that. The worst times in his life have been when he lost the script, when he knew what he was supposed to do but couldn’t.

_C_ _ouldn’t fight off Marayn Nador’s younger son- pathetic-_

They must pass through Quark’s to enter the holosuite, and ordinarily the sound and smells burst, but today it has the same muted quality of the Promenade. Someone else might call it dream-like, but Garak’s dreams are sharp and vivid, these days in black and purple and red. This is less real than a dream.

The realest spot in the bar is the table in the back corner and hands on Garak’s throat that felt like hands on-

“Are you all right?” Julian asks.

They’ve stopped walking. Garak doesn’t know when that happened.

“Of course, Doctor. Merely admiring the atmosphere,” are the words his voice says, and they move on.

The holosuite doors open with a rush of hot air and Garak _feels_ it against is skin.

He had turned down the heat in his quarters in the days before Julian’s night shift, before he could get the Other injuries attended to, and the bite of the cold kept him from getting numb, grounded him in himself when there were things he had to do. He had to heal his injuries, had to mitigate the weakness, had to get revenge-

And then, that done, he hadn’t thought to restore the temperature. He had stopped feeling it at all.

Now, the warm humidity rolling out of the holosuite gently embraces him, as he steps inside.

They descend down a path with rock walls, the floor the grit of sand. Garak recognizes it all, down to the dark lighting and the smell of the stones. It is quiet. Fire crackles, but heating stones make no sound, silent in their red glow.

There are only two slabs, on either side of the hill of heating stones, curved so that a body can lie next to them and absorb the welcome warmth.

It must be too warm for Julian. Garak glances back, to where the doctor has fallen behind, and sees that the human has rolled up his sleeves. He starts to speak when he realizes Garak is looking.

“I got the program from Quark. He said this is what popular saunas are like on Cardassia,” Julian informs Garak, as if a native Cardassian wouldn’t know. “I thought it might be… nice. I can leave if you’d like, but Quark said they’re usually a social experience?”

Garak recognizes the question in the upturn of Julian’s voice at the end.

“It’s rather hot for you, isn’t it, Doctor?” He sits hesitantly on the edge of one of the slabs, the surface already worn and warmed.

“I’m resilient.” Julian shrugs. “Besides, the uniform is designed to aid thermoregulation in a variety of climates, and Quark told me this isn’t the kind of sauna where you have to be naked.”

Something in Garak twitches at that, the scratch of gray scales on bare flesh where they don’t belong and _weight_ pressing down, and-

He realizes he is digging nails into his neck ridge and lowers his hands, gripping the edge of the stone bed instad.

“Is that a common Earth practice?” he asks, because that is his part to play.

“The point is, we won’t be.” Julian’s voice is unbearably gentle. “Only one more thing. Computer, load character Male Orator.”

An old Cardassian man shimmers into existence against one of the rock walls, with close-cropped silver hair and a stern, weathered face. He wears a gold robe embroidered with scarlet thread.

Julian explains, “Jadzia says that the Hoobishan Baths on Trill have music playing, but I remembered that dinner scene in _Crimson Shadow_ and I thought recitation might be more appropriate. He’s programmed with Utta Rell’s elegy cycle.”

Like many of the serialist poets of the First Republic, Utta Rell’s work is close to the line of taboo. It isn’t outlawed, but it isn’t taught in schools, and admitting to liking it earns a distasteful expression and a comment about ‘that sort of thing.’ After all, the First Republic had to fall for modern Cardassia to rise, so there is no need for poetry that mourns it.

Garak appreciates them, quietly.

“That translation was horrible,” he says, instead of observing that Julian has chosen one of the few Cardassian authors they both enjoy.

“Luckily, this isn’t a translation.”

“Then you won’t understand it,” Garak responds, giving Julian permission to stay.

“It will help me learn. Computer, activate character.”

The figure comes to life and begins in a rich, sweeping voice.

Garak shifts to lie down on his side, curving his body around the heating stones so that the warmth can seep through the layers of fabric into his bones. He faces the doctor, who does the same with with an awkward, unpracticed lack of grace.

This close, Garak can see the multicolored hues of Julian’s eyes, the perspiration dotting his golden brown skin.

He can feel the imperfections in the surface of the slab, edges and indentations, against the line of his torso and leg.

The deep voice in the background recites, but the words begin to morph into something else, the last time he heard Cardassian spoken aloud, _traitorous bastard how dare you_ , and before that _I bet you’ve missed the feeling of another Cardassian_ , and in between-

“Computer, freeze character. Garak, are you all right?”

He opens his eyes (when did he close them?) and sees Julian sitting up, leaning over him with a worried, furrowed brow.

Garak looks for the cause of concern, and sees he is trembling. Odd; he ought to have noticed that.

“Perfectly.” Pathetic, to have such a reaction to his own language. The reaction only an exile would have. “But I must say that hologram is a shame to the tradition of poetry recitation.”

“Computer, delete character.” Julian’s expressive face is pensive as he studies Garak. “Do you want me to read it?”

“You don’t speak Cardassian.” Garak is disappointed in how few languages these Starfleet types speak, so reliant on their universal translators to protect them.

He can read the challenge in the set of Julian’s jaw: _watch me_.

“Computer, display original Cardassian text of Utta Rell’s Withered Roots, cycle three, with phonetic overlay.”

If there is any shame to the tradition of poetry recitation, it is Julian’s atrocious accent that keeps him from stressing syllables correctly. But he perseveres through with characteristic determination, and Garak feels an odd impulse to laugh, not at Julian’s Cardassian, but something else he cannot identify. Himself, perhaps.

The heat is permeating his skin now, and Garak curls his toes, luxuriating in the feeling of being truly warm.

Julian makes it to the fourth poem in the cycle before he finally admits defeat, because he can’t make it through the word _nga_ _k_ _tlrakt_ without giggling at his own butchery. He allows the computer to dissolve the display and flops down on his back, holding his belly with a self-satisfied grin.

“I could _mostly_ do it,” he announces with childish pride.

Garak could easily argue with that, but lets it pass by. He runs a hand along the surface of the heating stones, and feels the warmth and pressure on his fingertips.

“Is there any danger of prolonged skin contact with those?” Julian asks, ever the doctor.

“Not in a natural formation such as this. Although the geothermal stones themselves are pleasant, we mainly enjoy the way the cave captures the heat. In an artificial sauna, on the other hand, you can easily burn yourself.” Garak presses his fingers harder against the rough surface, remembering. “I did once, when I was a child.”

“That must have hurt.” There is no place in Garak’s memory for the sympathy in Julian’s voice.

“I was careless. My father made sure I labored with my hands every day until they healed, to learn my lesson.”

There is a pause, and Garak waits for the inevitable Federation outcry about how children should be treated, and then he will have to argue in defense of Tain.

He feels too tired for that argument today, but it is his duty to defend Cardassia, and his father.

“That’s…” Julian stops, then starts over. “I imagine, with that sort of upbringing, you learned very early not tell people that you were hurt.”

That had been the lesson, hadn’t it? It wasn’t about how to behave in a sauna, it was about knowing that his weaknesses would be exploited if he didn’t hide his vulnerabilities.

The sort of lesson that resulted in two days of pain because Garak could only get treatment from the one doctor he trusted in the middle of the night when nobody else could see.

Garak’s hand stings with the phantom pain of that burn and he draws it close to his chest, which feels as if it is tightening, constricting.

If his breathing becomes ragged, Julian is polite enough not to point it out.

“In medicine, we talk about healing as if it’s linear,” Julian says, again with that unbearable gentleness. “But it isn’t, and there’s not really an end to the process. That’s the danger of letting one’s self heal, I suppose. It brings up every other anger and sorrow and loss we’re still learning how to grieve.”

“You make it sound as if humanoids are designed to do nothing but mourn.”

Numbness was easier than this, the supernova burning in Garak’s eyes and black hole gravity in his chest.

“We’re designed to feel joy, too. But in order to get there, we sometimes have to let ourselves feel bad first.”

Garak clenches his teeth against the shallow, desperate breaths, but the supernova is bursting and he can feel the tears emerging from eyes squeezed shut and suddenly he is coming apart.

“It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve got you…” A weight at Garak’s side, one hand smoothing his hair and the other holding his shoulder. Julian repeats in a low murmur, “I’ve got you.”

Julian is telling the truth. He will hold Garak for as long as needed, and he will listen.


	9. Epilogue: Future Imperfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That last chapter was meant to be the end in my original outline, but then I realized it didn't feel quite done, and I thought a future tense chapter might round out the experiment of alternating between past and present.

In the near future, Julian will suggest (not for the first time), that Garak may want to speak to a counselor. Garak will refuse. This argument will be ongoing.

Garak will suggest that it comes down to the lessons he has failed to learn, the weakness he has been unable to root out in himself. Julian will reject that notion. That argument will be ongoing, too.

Julian will suggest some literature, since that seems to be how Garak processes things. Garak will dismiss some of it and find meaning in others, as they always do.

Quark will win a financial settlement from Nador. Odo will give him two days’ reprieve from investigation in unvoiced thanks. Sisko will buy several more shirts and also pants for Jake, who is still determinedly growing. He will also issue dire threats when Dukat’s ship next docks for repairs and his men want shore leave.

But all of that is in the future. For now, in this one moment, it is enough that Garak lets himself be held, and Julian holds him close.


End file.
